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Grayson looked down at the mess, utterly unamused, then glowered at her.

“That’ll be cut from your pay,” he said, but she didn’t hear a word.

To think she’d been about to feel guilty for spilling coffee on him! Now she wished she’d spilled enough to ruin his entire outfit and his perfect hair, just for good measure.

Lucy always knew Charles had a grandson; he and Sophie only had one daughter, Claire, who only had one son. Claire and her husband had passed away over two decades ago, and their son was sent to live with a paternal uncle abroad. Charles rarely spoke about it, and Lucy never asked. It was a sore subject, one that brought the old man a great deal of pain, even years later.

Grayson had been a child when he went to live with his uncle, but in the years that had passed since, he hadn’t visited once. Not even when Sophie had died a few years back. Charles had been bereft at the loss of his wife, so Lucy had stayed with him, consoled him.

Lucy had imagined Charles’s grandson—his only living relative—would finally appear, and he never did. Lucy promised Charles he wasn’t alone, yet his grandson didn’t make even an ounce of effort. Her heart broke all over again when Charles, who finally got a smartphone after months of her pestering him, asked Lucy if his was broken. “I never receive his calls—Lucy, it must be broken. It never rings.”

She loved Charles with all her heart, so fiercely she would have made herself his blood if there were a spell for that.

And now his grandson was in his store, walking around as if he owned the place.

“You might want to clean that up,” he said, walking away from her to peruse the shop.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, glaring daggers. Her body buzzed with anger. Grayson looked taken aback by her tone. Frankly, she thought she was showing remarkable restraint.

“What do you mean?” he asked, blinking slowly. “This is my shop.”

Her jaw dropped open with shock. Not that he cared to notice. “It sure as shit is not yours,” she protested, flabbergasted. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

Ignoring her, he walked around, taking things in with an unimpressed expression that offended her. When he saw the crumbs from her toast at the counter (she was going to clean that!), he shook his head with disdain.

With a sigh, he went to the front display, picking books up and setting them down with disinterest, not even sparing her carefully curated tea recommendations a second glance. He saw the little table she’d set up next to the front counter with flowers and picked up a bouquet of peonies and marigolds, bright pink and yellow. He turned to her, holding it up.

“This is a bookstore,” he said, tone dry as she marched over to him. She snatched the flowers from his hands, trying not to notice how long and slender his fingers were.

“And?” she snapped, holding the bouquet close to her chest.

“Why on earth are you selling flowers?” He looked confused.

“We’re also occasionally a flower shop.” Lucy tried not to sound defensive and failed.

Anger burned through her; she had no reason to be self-conscious! She liked making bouquets from her garden to sell! Just as she liked baking things and selling beverages!

Yes, it was a bookstore, but it was also a café and a flower shop, and there had been one summer when she took pottery classes every week and would sell her creations, so it was a ceramic shop, too. (Mostly Charles bought the ceramics, which meant they were decorating random perches in the store, but it was so fun!) And it was Charles’s shop; he let her do whatever she wanted.

Raising his brows, Grayson kept walking, taking in the mismatched decor, the blanket folded lazily over the armchair by the fire-place, the knickknacks that sat on the mantel, the fairy lights covering the curtains and shelves in uneven swoops.

Lucy was proud of how the store looked. She had been coming here since she was a child and working here since she was old enough to get a job. It had taken years to craft the coziness of the store: the feeling that you were welcome and warm, and it was a place you would love to return to again and again, just like rereading a favorite book or watching a favorite movie—and he was taking it all in as though it were a messy yard sale of old junk.

“Charles said you were fanciful, but my god.” He shuddered. She usually took fanciful as a compliment, but his sneer indicated the opposite.

“Charles didn’t tell me a thing about you,” she said, voice clipped. “So, once again, what are you doing here?”

“I’m Charles’s emergency contact.”

“The emergency is over. You aren’t needed!”

He turned back to her, his scrutinizing gaze upon her. His blue eyes were piercing, and despite herself, she fidgeted beneath their intensity.

“You wear that to your place of employment?” he asked. Her face felt hot.

Lucy was wearing a huge thrifted sweater that looked like it belonged to somebody’s father, (admittedly) years-old black leggings, thick cable-knit socks, and her trusty moccasins. She usually liked to dress up more, but she wasn’t in the best mood, what with Charles in the hospital and all. This was a comfort outfit! Not that he had any right to judge.

“Sorry I’m not in a fucking three-piece suit,” she snapped, finally finding her voice. “I didn’t realize this was Wall Street!”